


Lusting, Latin and Lynch

by nikkiixo



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst and Humor, Funny, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 04:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2178711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikkiixo/pseuds/nikkiixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kavinsky shows up to class to lust over Ronan Lynch, but instead he is left wondering what the hell is going on between him and Trailer Trash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lusting, Latin and Lynch

**Author's Note:**

> For Vanessa, the Watson to my Sherlock, the Ronan to my Gansey & the Jay Z to my Beyonce~ xxx
> 
> Check our more of my writing at flawlessokay-okay.tumblr.com

Kavinsky didn't need to come to class. He didn't even need to go to school. Quite frankly, he didn't need to do anything. Everything he did was everything he wanted to do.

And today Kavinsky wanted to show up to Latin class. He wanted to gaze at a certain Ronan Lynch furrow his dark brows as he tried to understand the words written on the ebony chalkboard. He wanted to watch him bite his flushed lip in concentration while he scribbled furiously in his notebook. He wanted to stare at that savagely handsome body hidden beneath all that irritating clothing, and let his mind wander and imagine what it would look like bent over the hood of his-

Kavinsky leaned back against his chair, and folded his arms over his chest

But today, instead of losing himself in his fantasy, Kavinsky was stuck wondering what the hell was going on between Princess and Trailer Trash.

Since the beginning of Mr. Gibson’s class on God-knows-what, Lynch had been intently staring at something, a distant look in his eyes. Kavinsky decided he’d try to be a motherfucking sleuth, and followed Lynch’s faraway gaze. He didn't have to look far to realize that the object of his fixation was not a something. It was a someone, a someone named Adam Parrish.

To be honest, the very few times Kavinsky had bothered to look at Parrish for more than three seconds, he concluded that Trailer Trash did a damn good job at hiding that he was…well, trailer trash. At the moment though, his unkempt uniform, his damp and flustered face and that mop on the top of his head that was supposed to pass as hair gave off the impression that he had just rolled out of a pig’s ass. 

Detective Kavinsky (it had a certain ring to it, don’t you think?) realized he had a pretty good eye for detail when it suited him.

For instance, not only did Parrish look like a mess, he was acting like one too. The poor bastard couldn't seem to be able to sit still. One moment he was shifting awkwardly in his seat, the next he was tugging at his collar and later he was marking up the plastic cap of his pen with his teeth. His restless behavior was beginning to piss Kavinsky off, but he was determined to get to the bottom of Parrish’s strange attitude. Although, this new found determination was partially due to the fact that it involved Lynch and mostly that Kavinsky had nothing else better to do.

Suddenly, the ruined pen fell to the ground and rolled under its owner’s chair. Before Kavinsky even knew it, Lynch had leaped from his own seat a row away to swoop down and retrieve the fallen object. Parrish hadn't even moved a single muscle when Lynch had handed him the pen. The tips of their fingers brushed, and lingered long enough for Mr. Gibson to catch a glimpse of the unusual scene.

Kavinsky watched the Irish boy swiftly stride back to his seat next to Dick who as usual didn't notice shit. He slumped into his chair, and Kavinsky could see the blush creeping up his neck which was so odd that the Jersey native started questioning his usually flawless eye sight.

“What the actual fuck is going on?” Kavinsky huffed. His index and his thumb pinched the bridge of his nose. He was definitely going to need an aspirin by the end of class.

“Mr. Lynch,” Mr. Gibson called, his expression was unreadable and devoid of any emotion. He was elegantly perched on the edge of his desk, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers.

Everyone turned to face Ronan, and in return Dick’s right hand man clenched his jaw and cocked an eyebrow in defiance.

“Despite the fact that I have just spoken about him, would you care to remind the class who is considered the master of prose in Latin literature?” the professor asked his tone flat and lacking in interest.

Lynch didn't look in the least uncomfortable as he bore his eyes into Gibson’s, hoping the intensity of his stare would warn the new Latin teacher that this Lynch brother was not to be messed with. Nevertheless, Mr. Gibson didn't falter, and welcomed the challenge with a brief, “Well?”

Lynch bit the inside of his mouth, shook his head and stated the obvious, “I don’t know.”

Kavinsky held back a smirk and his breath as the stoic old man let out a long exasperated exhale in an attempt to voice his disappointment. He then stood up, picked up a chalk piece which fit gracefully between his fingers, and wrote on the board in larger than life letters the answer to his question:

CICERO

After having written the name, he fiddled with the chalk for a few unbearably silent moments. While he focused on coating his hand in white powder, he scanned the room and rested his gaze on his top student. He then threw the chalk on the floor with enough force for it to explode into millions of particles of white dust. 

Kavinsky thought it looked a lot like snow. Or cocaine.

Gibson began pacing about. 

“I always thought you quite enjoyed my class, Mr. Lynch,” he said, his voice so loud that it echoed throughout the room. 

Mr Gibson’s mouth curled into a smile that made even Lynch noticeably cringe, “But it appears to me that you find Mr. Parrish significantly more interesting than today’s lesson.”

He paused, relishing in his victory as Lynch’s eyes widened and his mouth threatened to fall open in disbelief.

“Am I right?” asked Gibson right before every single student who harboured a secret aversion when it came to Ronan Lynch, in other words everyone except Dicky boy and Parrish, burst out in laughter. Kavinsky made sure to laugh the loudest.

Lynch looked deadlier with each wave of laughter. He quivered in rage and embarrassment, and flinched as Dick tried to whisper something in his ear.

K fought the urge to yell something that would fuel Lynch’s anger, and failed miserably.

“Woo get it Princess!” he cried between fits of snickering. He held his stomach, and decided this was going to be the highlight of his week. He looked over at Parrish who had grown even more fidgety, tugging at his collar at every interval of a few seconds. At one point, he tugged it too far down, revealing a trail of bruises that indicated that Trailer Trash must be getting it on too.

Kavinsky felt his next roar of laughter catch in his throat when the realization dawned on him. He was going to be sick.

Lynch and Parrish, oh God. 

This amateur had solved the mystery after all.

When Lynch had had enough of Mr. Gibson eyeing him victoriously, he slammed his bag on his desk; the sound silenced immediately the classroom’s laughter. Dick buried his face in his hands.

“You’re abso-fucking-lutely right sir,” he announced and stormed off.

Kavinsky ran after him because he loved the attention. Well, and the look on Parrish’s face when he got up.

Once he was in the hall right outside the classroom, Lynch was on route towards the school exit. Kavinsky followed closely behind until they were both outside, and Lynch was heading in the direction of the parking lot probably in search of his BMW.

“How long have you been screwing Trailer Trash, huh?” K called to him as he quickened his pace to remain within earshot of Lynch’s reply.

Lynch swore under his breath, and balled his hands into fists, but other than that he stayed relatively calm.

K smirked, and took it up a notch. “Is that how you like ‘em: dirt poor with a fuck ton of daddy issues?”

Once again, he wondered if Dick had enrolled Lynch in some anger management classes recently because all the latter did was walk faster.

Kavinsky tried desperately to hide the defeat present in his voice, “I bet you let him call you Daddy, right Princess?”

The BMW came into view and Lynch whispered a silent, “Thank God.” He pulled out his keys, and unlocked the car. 

This was Kavinsky’s last chance. 

Lynch had his hand around the door handle.

“Actually maybe he’s not that bad of a fuck. I heard that speaking Latin isn’t the only thing he can do with his mouth-”

K hadn't even had time to finish before Lynch had him pinned down face first unto the hood of the BMW, careful not to scratch the paint of his beloved car.

Bingo.

“Don’t you dare talk about him like that, you piece of shit,” Lynch snarled.

K hadn't even had the time to think of a reply before Lynch had released him, slid into the car, and sped off.

“You have it bad; you’re in too fucking deep now!” K cried after the car even though he doubted anyone would hear him.

Jealousy tugged at his heart strings, and he bit back tears.

Hmm, it looks like Ronan Lynch wasn't the only one who had it bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Ughhh it is honestly so hard to write about a character as complex and fantabulousssss as Kavinsky but I think I did a pretty decent job for my first time:P Hopefully I did him justice.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
